


Riptide

by merethengilith



Series: Mary decides that she should probably write lotr fics again [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, Introspection, Post-War of the Ring, Romance, an australian writes about the beach how original how groundbreaking, bonus points for sneaky star wars jokes bc why not, eomer is a shy boi pass it on, i dont know how to tag i havent used ao3 since i was in highschool rip, lothiriel is in charge and thems THE FACTS, wow gosh i love the sea here have some creative allusions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2019-11-06 12:12:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17939465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merethengilith/pseuds/merethengilith
Summary: He was unsure at first of what to make of her. A slip of a girl, really, barely out of the nursery.It had started with a polite invitation written in the hands of no less than all three of her brothers. It seemed that Eomer’s new-found sword brothers had squabbled amongst themselves about who should relay their father’s wishes to the Rohirric King. He was to attend the coming-of-age ceremony of his cousin-in-law Lothìriel and enjoy the festivities.‘Enjoy’ had been rather heavily underlined by he guessed Amrothos who once compared him to a snarling boar.Or: In which Lothiriel is sassy and Eomer is definitely into her (and he should stop denying it)





	1. Low Tide at Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: *pulls on infinity gauntlet after finishing reading all the Eomer/Lothiriel fics* Fine. I’ll write some myself. I haven’t written fanfiction in literal years because doing a double degree at uni was definitely a massive mistake and I am DYING. Anyway, I needed to write about beaches bc I’m Australian and it’s un-Australian not to spend time at the beach in summer.

He was unsure at first of what to make of her. A slip of a girl, really, barely out of the nursery.

But a small, traitorous part of his mind reminded Éomer that she was a woman grown and more than capable of holding her own ground within the shifting sands of politics. Had her father not said so himself? That Lothririel had been left in charge of Dol Amroth while all her brothers had joined him on campaign? In truth, she confessed to him much later as they sat together upon the sandy shoreline; that every moment sitting on her father’s throne had scared her. That every waking moment had been spent measuring her breaths and her face should her messengers inform her that all she held dear had too been taken by the darkness inescapable.

Éomer watched her now as she smiled that infuriating dimpled grin, rising out of the sea and joining him on the cloak he had laid over the misty sand. He did his best to ignore the wet cling of fabric against her form. Her very well-pleasing and curved form- he stopped himself with a shake of the head, desperate to forget it.

“My lord will you not join me?” Her dainty hands- everything about her was so dainty, well, compared to him- wrung out dark curls.

“And resemble looking like a drowned rat?” Despite himself he felt the corners of his mouth tug up into a crooked smile and she returned it with a grin all the brighter.

“I was unaware rats came in a flaxen variety,” Lothìriel teased, sitting beside him and meeting his gaze. “Would you not instead look like a wet bundle of hay?”

Éomer raised a brow deciding not even to deign her teasing with an answer. It seemed as if his ploy was to work against him anyway with the princess doing her best to stifle a grin. He wasn’t even sure how she managed to rope him into this mess. From what he could gather this was a culmination of many things.

It had started with a polite invitation written in the hands of no less than all three of her brothers. It seemed that Éomer’s new-found sword brothers had squabbled amongst themselves about who should relay their father’s wishes to the Rohirric King. He was to attend the coming-of-age ceremony of his cousin-in-law Lothìriel and enjoy the festivities.

‘Enjoy’ had been rather heavily underlined by he guessed Amrothos who once compared him to a snarling boar.

And for the most part, he had. His sister seemed to positively glow, colour once again returning to her cheeks after its’ prolonged absence in Medulsed. Faramìr, he must admit, was as gracious and as loving as he could’ve hoped for his sister. Perhaps too cavalier in his attitude as it was announced that Éomer was to be an uncle before the year’s end.

No, his biggest problem was the five-foot-two tempest that was the Princess Lothìriel, who from the moment she lay eyes on him decided that her sole purpose in life was to tease him within an inch of his life. If that wasn’t enough he’d soundly lost a bet to her in a bout of archery and was forced to open her first dance with her at her first ball. It was simply torture to him, remembering how gracefully she flitted around him, her doe-eyes sparkling under candles as they barely- just barely- touched fingers in the dance.

He sounded like a love-sick elf and he was disgusted. He was sure Legolas would be proud of the veritable poetry he was espousing.

But his current state couldn’t be helped he supposed. What else was there left to do but surrender to the inevitable pull of the riptide and hope that he could eventually find a break and swim back to shore.

Unfortunately said riptide was too busy not letting go and chattering her plump mouth off.

He really did hate sand, he admitted to her, which in turn stopped her chatter.

Lothìriel smirked, her small fist grabbing a handful of sand and sprinkling it onto his damp lap. “And why is that Your Majesty?”

“I find it coarse, and rough, and irritating and prone to getting everywhere.” Éomer replied with a huff, though a thought did cross his mind, “Just like yourself.” She smiled as sweetly as she possibly could.

The Bay was lovely though, he had to admit. Admittedly he loved the rolling plains and greenery of Rohan, but here too there was an untamed wildness. It was evident in its’ people and their carefree way of life, shaped by the waves and built against the stark grey cliffs of Belfalas. Lothìriel was as the sea, deep and terrifying but a shimmering jewel when the light hit her just right. From the mere days he’d come to know her he’d learnt of her unforgiving temper when truly angered but also of her playfulness and kindness. Lying upon her back beside him now, he couldn’t see a single trace of her ruthlessness that made itself present whenever they played a game of chess or shot in a game of archery.

He could also sense her immense loneliness sometimes.

It annoyed him initially, the way she had clung to him like sand and pulled him about the city determined to show him all the sites. But like the sea he felt her isolation and sadness; losing her mother, her brothers so much older than her, her father caught in his duties. He realised when she looked delighted when he bit into a scallop pie she’d shoved into his hands, that for once she’d had someone to share her mundane life with. That she could experience the wonderment of the city in someone who had never been there before.

So that was how he’d found himself here at dawn, joining her on her morning swim that she’d finally convinced her nursemaid was wholly appropriate now that she was of age.

“You promise me that water isn’t cold?” He asked timidly, no not timidly he tried convincing himself, merely… unsure.

“I promise you it isn’t too cold.” She smiled gently, taking his hand in hers and pulling him to his bare feet. “It’s summer after all, the water is warmer and will be more so after the sun is higher.”

“Rohan’s rivers and lakes are fed by the Misty Mountains. I can only assume they won’t be quite as freezing.” Éomer smiled and felt his heart stop a beat as Lothìriel’s grin spread wider.

Pausing a moment to take off his shirt he slowly followed her lead into the water.

“Don’t be scared Éomer,” she whispered gently, her hand reassuredly grasping his, she waded deeper and deeper into the cool water. Her grey eyes briefly turned to his again, silently asking for his trust and he gave it fully. The coolness had taken him aback at first but as the seconds passed Éomer felt himself become accustomed to the gentle lull of the salty waves lapping against first his calves then his thighs. Eventually she had pulled him into water that had begun to reach her shoulders and his chest.

In the pale pink light of the morning he couldn’t help but admire her. He preferred her like this, basking in the early morning sun with her damp curls floating on the water surface and dark lashes framing her eyes. Her skin seemed golden in the early sunlight and the shadows of her dimples seemed cast deeper than under candle light. She looked as if she belonged here, like the tales of mermaids and sea-nymphs that Erchirion told him children of Belfalas were raised on. Perhaps this wasn’t the cold rivers of Rohan that he was accustomed to, but here he understood why she felt at home. Despite the strength of the sea pulling back, here was a slight woman determinedly holding her ground with all the confidence of a Queen, daring the sea to pull her out.

And in his mind he knew that it was what she was destined to be if she agreed. Or at least he hoped she agreed after he found a way to ask her.

Lothìriel now turned sharply from the horizon to face him and he was yet again made aware of simply how short she was against him. “My lord,”

“Yes?”

“Are you ever going to kiss me properly?” She raised a brow and Éomer felt his heart stop for a second. He felt as if his hands had lost all feeling, and then in an instant, decided upon their next course of action.

The distance between them closed within heart beats.

At first her lips felt unsure, but the small smile he could feel forming against his own lips answered his question. She returned his kiss confidently, her wet hands reaching to gently cradle his jaw and run her fingers through his now salt-dampened beard. Éomer pulled her body closer against him now, relishing in the warmth her small frame now gave him. As the fiery sparks coursed through him he paused for a second, breaking away and resting his forehead against hers, noting her parted lips now deeper red from kissing.

“How was that?” He dared to ask, feeling his warm breath mingling with hers. He barely had time to register the mischievous glint that coloured her eyes and in that instance he knew he was in trouble. And that he would happily comply.

“I’m not sure,” She rubbed her nose against the tip of his, “I’ll have to double-check.”

And double, triple check she did indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Fun fact, I sassed my boyfriend into kissing me for the first time with that exact line. As you can see I questionable terrible decisions when panicking. Anyway I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing this and let me know if you want some more parts (I do have some ideas). Find me over on Tumblr with my main blog (mischief-and-maryment) and my fic sideblog (if-weshadows-haveoffended).


	2. Salt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It’s a long boi. Lothìriel has a mind of her own and she more or less took over in this chapter. I know in the previous chapter it was very Eomer/Lothìriel centric but we’ll get to see some more Dol Amoth family shenanigans in the next chapter. Anyway I hope you enjoy this one, I kind of wanted to just explore Lothiriel and see how I wanted her to compliment and contrast with Eomer, but mostly because I wanted to write a character who may not have been as affected by the war as others but still had to pay a price. Those little details will become more apparent over the next chapters.

When Lothiriel first lay eyes on the young King she wasn’t quite sure if her brothers were lying or not.

He certainly looked like a King, all golden rage and warrior boldness. But she had seen the quiet grace of Aragorn and the immense weight the crown burdened on the once-lithe ranger. Éomer just seemed so young, paralysed by the realisation of his new station. And unapproachable if she dared say. Well, it wasn’t as if she was afraid of a challenge.

But they had also said that of her. She didn’t seem like a Princess of Dol Amroth, they had said when she took her father’s seat during the war. She was too young, too flighty. She had been that cheeky girl who had nothing better to do than haunt the merchants and fishermen of Belfalas as a child.

And she had spent all her time running wild, for her there was no denying it. Her days as a girl were spent waking up with the sun and swimming in the waters near the palace, then after a sound reprimanding by her nursemaid she would attend her lessons (if she hadn’t already snuck out of them), then after a brief lunch spent with her brothers and father it was an archery lesson with aforementioned brothers. After soundly beating her brothers in archery she was then wrangled into a bath, forced at sword-point (or at least it felt like it when old Saerwen threatened her with no dessert) to do her needle work, and then finally supper.

Her routine had hardly changed for the last nineteen years but now it seemed like a lifetime ago. She still rose with the sun but up until her father returned half a year ago she had barely touched the sea. The second she opened her eyes it felt as if correspondence and reports were already bombarding her. She sat upon her father’s sandstone seat listening to complaints and remedying them with answers, and thankfully the answers came easy with all her years running around. Saerwen had noted with worry that her gowns were fitting looser and looser and that her eyes were dimmed in fatigue. But still Lothiriel carried on in her duty. Rest was the privilege of those with less responsibility than her.

Her father had made her Princess of Dol Amroth the moment the Haradìm had begun their incursions upon the borders. With her brothers managing their own companies of Swan Knights abroad, Imrahil had decided she had run around Belfalas for long enough. She managed trade and imposed sanctions upon Harad as their allegiances became more well-known, the policy was met with some success, though it lessened the amount of spices and silks entering The Bay by a small margin, the Haradìm were forced to stop entering their lands unannounced if they wanted their highly lucrative trade to continue. Other policies, such as changes to succession and inheritance was met with some resistance by the small council. But some _persuasive_ diplomatic words (and some inventive language) later the new ruling went through. After all, they were at war, what use was only letting sons inherit if they were all dying at the hands of Mordor?

From what Lothìriel had heard Éomer was in no easier position than she had been (and still was, her father still handed her the trade portfolios). With a war on two fronts and the crops of the Westfold razed by the Dunelings and the forces of Isengard smashing upon the walls of Helms Deep as if ocean waves, well, she hoped the man was getting sleep. Her new cousin had regaled her with many stories of her brother, but mostly Eowyn had warned her that he was a man of few words and trusted very few. Lothìriel could understand, after all he had lost nearly everyone.

So it was with the kindest smile she could possibly muster that she greeted the King as he arrived in the palace for today. He looked lost and confused, his great size dwarfed in the airy expanses of the palace (which was no mean feat), but upon making eye contact with her decided he would walk determinedly in her direction.

“Princess,” He made a very neat bow and she observed the velvet green of his tunic and the brown cape draped carelessly over his left shoulder looking annoyingly dashing. Éomer was of a sharper face than his sister, his strong brows and cropped beard much deeper than the honeyed blondes of his long hair. But what stilled her breath was the warmth of his dark eyes, how deep they seemed but also how bright in the mid-morning sun.

“Éomer King.” Lothìriel returned his bow with a deep curtsey, “Please, just Lothìriel, you protected my family upon the battlefield and I am eternally indebted.” The look of slight protest but rapid relinquishment that crossed his face spoke more than his soft noise of acknowledgement. Perhaps he wasn’t a man of many words as Eowyn said, but if one knew where to look his thoughts were there.

“My father is not yet home,” Lothìriel spoke, breaking the brief silence. “Perhaps I can show you around the city? Father is out visiting some of the islands and won’t be back until supper. He’s taken Amrothos and Erchirion with him and Elphir is escorting his wife to visit her family in Lossanarch.”

“Has my sister arrived yet?” His voice was filled with quiet concern but also of longing to see his beloved Eowyn again.

“Yes, she and cousin Faramìr arrived a few days ago.” Lothìriel said, her own joy colouring her town. She motioned for him to follow her into the gardens. “Your sister has told me a great many things about you,”

“It’s all lies and slander!” Éomer defended himself so quickly that she couldn’t help but laugh. She turned around to face him and upon seeing the tops of his cheeks and the tips of his ears turn pink she tried to smother her amusement. He looked so concerned and embarrassed that it was just simply endearing, especially for someone of his height.

“No, I can promise you she was nothing but kind,” she quickly assessed him as her next thought formed at the edge of her tongue, “Though _I_ didn’t make any promises not to embarrass you about your archery.”

Éomer sighed a long-suffering sigh of a brother with a much-trying younger sister. It was a sound she had heard from each and every one of her brothers. Erchirion especially for she never seemed to stop bombarding him with questions. Perhaps the worst case was when she asked her brother at the tender age of five about where babies came from. From there it was the most amusing game of pass-the- inquisitive-child until poor cousin Boromìr did his best to keep a straight face and satiate her knowledge. Valar bless his soul, but he couldn’t never quite look her in the face from that point on.

She missed him. He had always brought her dolls and had once gifted her with an archery set for her ten year-old frame. It was Bormoìr who had thrown her into the air only to catch her again, carried her through crowded streets upon his shoulders, played tea-parties (usually with Faramìr in tow) with. He was always so kind and protective of his brother and his cousins- as if their entire childhoods could all be defined by the eldest of their cousins. And now? Now he was far away beyond any of their reach. To hear him laugh just one more time, the memory of it made her heart ache.

“It was one time and I only shot my uncle in the foot,” The King of Rohan grumbled, though not without some small amount of laughter in his voice at the memory. Eowyn barely spoke of Theoden, save that he was a kind man and a strong one who fought off the poisons of Saruman until his last. But beyond that she knew barely anything. With Éomer it was different, his voice betrayed memories of a family she wished to know more of.

“Apparently that’s tantamount to treason in the Riddermark,” Éomer’s brows shot up in surprise at the fact she referred to Rohan as The Mark rather than Rohan as Gondorians were wont to. She continued to lead him through limestone corridors and heavy doors until they reached the southern portion of the palace where walled gardens overlooked the ocean. “Perhaps I should be dangling you by your toes naked over the walls?”

“My lady I think that would traumatise your people more than it would mortify me.” Éomer quipped dryly though his face softened considerably when he noticed the white-clad woman sitting by the walls, observing the gentle undulations of the waves as they crashed upon Belfalas’ golden sands. Without waiting for a word he crossed the small distance as if he could barely believe his eyes; that his sister was here, that he was no longer alone. He held his sister tight in his embrace and in that instance Lothìriel felt as if she was intruding upon something.

With a final glance at the reunited siblings and Éomer’s wondrous delight at the news of his impending Unclehood, she withdrew from the gardens.

Gondorian gossip would have it that Éomer was a lion lashing out at its cage with his anger. But in that briefest of meetings Lothìriel had decided that of all men he had suffered enough. And if it meant making fool of herself just to see him smile then so be it. As her brothers and cousins knew well, Lothìriel of Dol Amroth was not a princess to do something by halves. And that included being an idiot.

* * *

“Daughter,” Lothìriel quickly put down her quill and rose to greet her father, import taxes and new trade routes could be put aside for him for a moment. Her father rarely ventured into this part of the palace where she preferred to work, Elphir often said it was because it reminded him too much of mother and that she looked far too similar to Meldawen for the Prince of Dol Amroth to bare the haunted expanses of gardens and terraces.

Imrahil was wearing a startlingly bright shade of peacock blue this morning and she did her best to look delighted about it as he crossed the marble expanse framed by towering columns of icy-covered limestone. Imrahil was not prone to very many fancies save battle and his robes. Perhaps she should bring up the cost his fripperies were having upon the purse…

If he even thought about needing another new blue (always blue! Why not red? Or yellow perchance?) tunic she would scream. But no, this was far too early for her father even by his punctual standards. This couldn’t be good. She noted with some humour that her Amrothos really _did_ inherit their father’s worried face as much as the former would protest.

“Good morning father, I have drafts for the taxes ready as well as arrangements for Erchirion’s new University.” She winced internally doing the mental arithmetic at the funding needed to ensure her brother’s harebrained scheme for better education was going to work. Though scholarly archives existed throughout all of Arda, an educational institution of this scale was something that was hardly seen since the First Age. But with the elves dwindling in number knowledge among the race of men was something that needed improvement. She had to admit it was a noble and much-needed thing but surely even rational Erchirion could understand that this should be attempted at a much smaller scale first.

“No, that’s not what I was here for. Though I must admit you have been of much help.” Imrahil placed a kiss upon her brow and held her at an arm’s length as if admiring her. Lothìriel did her best not to squirm under his scrutiny- as loving as it may be. “My, you’ve grown so much.”

“Not in height adad,” She replied with a small huff of laughter as Imrahil playfully tapped the end of her nose. “Stop plying me with compliments ada, what do you need done? Is it Rothos? Do I need to wrangle the cats?”

“No, though I must admit a reprimanding of Sir Ràvo Whiskers of the Swan Knights Cavalry would not be amiss. He seems to be fond of tearing up my slippers.” Her father sniffed in disdain at the adorable Royal Mousecatcher. “No my beloved trouble-maker, I need you to tour our guest.”

Her brows furrowed, it wasn’t like studious Erchi to just abandon his duties. “Éomer? Whatever for? I thought that was Erchi’s job?”

“Erchirion is currently occupied with naval duties.” Her father stated, though she noted it seemed to be with some reluctance. The only thing that ever stopped her lanky and unfortunately bearded brother from burying his head in the books was her father taking them aboard the warships. “And after all of your siblings you were the one who snuck away from lessons to run wild the most.” Lothìriel considered that an achievement within itself as she was sure Amrothos had snuck off far more than she had. Surely Elphir had tried dodging arithmetic lessons for swordfighting more often than she’d escaped.

“Well alright, but I take no responsibility for any accidental diplomatic crises.”

She swore her father twitched.

* * *

“Is it always so…” Éomer sounded unsure as he followed her along the sandstone-block roads, his head continuously peering about at different stalls and taking in how odd the buildings looked compared to that of Rohan’s wooden halls. Lothìriel paused for a moment beside a small vendor’s stall, it’s fabric coverings a little worse for wear but still a recognisable shade of Dol Amroth blue. She turned around from the vendor, finishing handing him a small silver coin in exchange for a pair of warm scallop pies.

“Fishy?” Lothìriel hazarded a guess at the usual complaint most newcomers had to the harbour. The heady scent of salt, seaweed, and fish was something that took getting used to, but it was home. And much better than the smell of shit and spirits in Gondor.

“Cramped.” Éomer admitted in a quiet voice. “I mean no offence,”

“No, of course you don’t.” Lothìriel looked about her, noting how close together the sandstone buildings were and at the sheer number of people running about the narrow street. Merchants were consistently hauling goods up and down the thoroughfare while children run about playing games. Women were purchasing goods and placing their groceries into the baskets that they rested against their hips.

There was something ticking in the back of her mind becoming clearer and clearer the longer she watched Éomer’s face. His dark eyes tried to remain staring at the ground but it would uneasily dart around him, his tall frame appeared to be making itself somewhat smaller, his mouth pressed into a firm line. ‘ _Oh_ ’, Lothìriel thought. Elphir could not stand to be in crowded spaces anymore either. She gathered that both Éomer and Elphir were haunted by the same dreams of the cavalry and the mass of destruction beneath the hooves of their mounts; that he could smell the blood and feel the crush of people around him as he battled forward.

Lothìriel had thought that the King was finally beginning to look more rested, damn her stupidity. He seemed to carry himself much lighter, he laughed around his sister and her brothers. He’d even had the heart to laugh at her more stupid jests. She could admit to herself that he was quite handsome to look at (she wasn’t fond of deluding herself after all) when he wasn’t so severe and almost…charming when he put his mind to it.

She had to fix this. Doing the only thing she knew she well: she acted without thinking, pulling his hand and guiding him through the city as best as she could, weaving around the milling citizens as expertly as one carrying two very hot scallop pies in one hand could manage. The tighter the cramped buildings seemed to her companion Lothìriel noted how much tighter his larger hand clasped around hers, as if she were a light house leading his boat back to shore in a storm. Every now and again the number of people around them increased and she would feel his tall form press against her, apologising profusely under his breath. She shook it off in small whispers as her feet led her closer and closer to the open shore.

Admittedly it felt different to have someone else with her. As a child it was usually Saerwen or Aunt Irviniel -whenever she cared to visit- that followed after her and made sure that nothing particularly untoward happened. As she got older the following stopped, mostly due to the small blade that Elphir had very wisely given her and bade her tie to her person. But this? This was a wholly new sensation. Despite the fact she was guiding Éomer, for the most part the afternoon had been a delight.

“We’re nearly there, I promise.” Lothìriel said reassuringly to Éomer, watching him nod uneasily. “I’m sorry I shouldn’t have-“

“It’s not your fault, your highness.” His voice was more curt with than he had previously been. She felt as if she were struck, her heart sinking within her chest from her mistake. But still, she kept going, finally reaching the great expanses of dark rock platforms and golden sand covered sporadically in drying seaweed. Very few people ventured towards this end of the docks, save for those trying to access deeper pools of water within the Bay.

“Is this better?” Lothìriel probed gently, releasing a breath in relief as Éomer’s shoulders relaxed. “I really shouldn’t have taken you there,”

“No lass, it was enjoyable.” Éomer met her eyes in earnest, his tone genuine. “I am too rough of a northerner to enjoy your ways.”

“Not rough.” Lothìriel searched in her mind for the right word. “Perhaps untried. If Erchi had his way you’d be emptying your stomach over the sides of one of his prized vessels.”

“Aye, I’d consider that far worse torture- what is that?” He noticed the small, somewhat warm pastry that she had pressed into his much larger hands. She felt small scars and rough patches that were the hallmarks of a warrior of his calibre.

“Eat. It’s a pie it won’t kill you.” She hoped she was reassuring and almost laughed at the small look of confusion that passed before Éomer’s face.

Tentatively he raised the pastry to his face and took a bite. Judging from the small noise of content he had made the pie was as welcome as she could have hoped for. Lothìriel tried to ignore the tug of her heart at the sight of his sleeve balled up in his palm, wiping away at errant crumbs caught in his beard or the quick lick to his lip at the small drop of cream sauce.

So this was Éomer.

Not the King of a savage country as the courtiers had gossiped about, no, here was the ridiculously tall man who quietly made jokes and enjoyed pastries. The man who her brothers spoke highly of and his sister even more so. The man who defined his family by his rag-tag bunch of friends and that she hoped someday that she too would count in that number. Who held all his responsibilities to himself, too scared to let the burden hurt anyone else. Here in the open expanses of the salt-kissed beach he was at peace, but she yearned to see him truly at home in the wild fields upon a horse as he had so often spoken of.

Before Éomer even had a chance to thank her she knew that she was lost.

She wasn’t sure if she was meant to be scared or excited by that fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey thanks for reading if you enjoyed please let me know and let me know if you have any suggestions and ideas <3 the next chapter is currently under progress (as are all of them) and will be up soon my dudes.


	3. Sea silk gossamer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Éomer is whipped and waltzing is the Middle Earth equivalent of dropping it like it’s hot on the dancefloor. Aunt Irvriniel is the immoveable object against Lothìriel’s unstoppable force. Also, we’re getting inventive with language my dudes hence the T rating. I was gonna make the ball section this chapter; but it wouldn’t be me if this fic didn’t get a ball chapter all to itself. This chapter is entirely in Éomer’s perspective save the final vignette, for reasons which will become fairly apparent. Man I thought this was going to be a happier chapter but boy was I wrong.

Éomer could feel cold sweat dripping down the back of his neck and his shirt. One shot, that was all it would take.

If his arrow missed well… he’d never hear the end of it.

“It’s a massive fucking target! Miss that and it’s just embarrassing!” Turning around he saw the well-built auburn-haired man sitting beside a very amused-looking Amrothos who fiddled with the strands of a dark-coloured braid.  Erchirion, ever the sailor was given unspoken permission by Imrahil to curse his clever mouth off without the punishments his siblings would usually encounter. Mostly due to the fact he believed only Erchirion had the sense not to cause scandal with such language at court. Éomer was certain that the tiny princess looking smug beside him became proficient in the curses of Middle Earth’s most commonly spoken languages through him. Elphir had recounted upon the battlefield that they had struggled to hide their sister’s perniciousness for the potty mouth as a toddler from their father to disastrous effect.

Faramìr by all accounts was still traumatised.

Speaking of Elphir, it would be ideal if the calmest of the three brothers could return home as soon as possible. The least troublesome by a very, _very_ small margin and would be able to keep those two hellions in line. What he wouldn’t give for Aragorn to simply stand by and allow the two princes to attend to his every whim as they worshipped the ground he walked upon. Unfortunately, his brother-in-arms was currently occupied with the matter of his impending fatherhood, Arwen was becoming far too large for his liking and he worried over the idea of a journey further than Ithilien.

“Éomer, if you lose you owe me a new horse!” Amrothos now jibed, earning a punch for his elder brother.

“Rothos you shitcock! You _know_ that’s fiscally irresponsible for him!” Éomer supposed that Lothìriel only dared speak in such an inventive way as her father (and his courtiers) were not around. Apparently such creativity had allowed for the passing of several bills in the small council during her father’s absence.

He took a deep breath and readjusted his grip upon the bow one last time, willing himself to hit the target’s bullseye some couple hundred feet away affixed to a statue of one of Lothìriel’s less-beloved ancestors. Not even daring to look in fear he missed, he closed his eyes and released his shot. He could hear the release of the arrow from the taught drawstring, his fingers felt the flurry of feathers slip through and his cheek the slight breeze the shot gave. With a heart-stopping thump the arrow met the woven target.

It hit it at least, first sign of hope.

He slowly opened his eyes, trying to view the target in the distance.

The sapphire-plumed arrow had just missed the bullseye, landing slightly to it’s left by an inch.

It was mocking him and he didn’t like it.

That damned inch had just cost him public humiliation in the form of entreating the annoying princess to his left with her first dance at her first ball.

“Can you not at least be gracious in victory?” He muttered to the understandably delighted princess. No, delighted was too weak a word. She was positively ecstatic, laughing energetically and dropping her bow at the force of her laughter. He reluctantly admitted to himself that her dainty face became wonderfully rosy and bright, eyes almost dripping with tears from the sheer hilarity of it all. Éomer could feel his lips also pull into a smile, finding her simply too infectious. “I demand a rematch, you cheated.”

“No! You made the bet, even signed the damned paper Erchi handed you.” She pushed his shoulder with a great deal of strength, failing to shove him over. “You look so…” Her tone was more gentle now as Lothìriel tossed her heavy braid over her shoulder once again before daring to look him in the eyes. Éomer found it hard to meet her gaze but he tried all the same.

The fact her eyes were blue in this light should not have taken him by surprise.

And yet it did. It seemed like such an important detail to miss. He’d just assumed her eyes were the same grey he had observed in her brothers and father. But here in the morning light it acquired the slightest tinge of pale blue to the stormy grey. How could he have missed that? Something so beautiful and so uniquely hers?

“So what?” He heard himself respond, perhaps too weakly for his liking. He needed to get better at this, she was barely half his height after all.

“So constipated.” He laughed at that. “You’re really not so bad,”

“No, I am.”

“No, you’re not!” She countered back, impassioned. “Besides I can’t expect you to be perfect at everything.” Things fell comfortably silent between them once again as he noticed Amrothos and Erchirion make their way towards them across the paved courtyard.

“Alright not a horse. Mayhaps a cask of Westfold Ale?” Amrothos conceded. Éomer rolled his eyes, wondering how he ever put up with these two on the campaign trail.

From memory he didn’t. It took his new brother-in-law knocking their heads together to get them to actually shut up for a period of longer than five minutes. He could only pity Faramìr and the state of his wits in the future knowing the shenanigans Eòwyn got up to. He was still livid over the horse shit she’d placed into his new boots at Meduseld when she was nine. Éomer recalled Thèodred’s particular experience with shoe polish in his hair while he slept, dyeing it the most magnificent shade of green. For the sake of everyone’s sanity, he hoped his soon-to-be sister-child took after his father rather than Eòwyn.

“Give it up my dearest, most ancient brother.” Lothìriel chimed, grinning an infuriatingly dimpled smile. She was going to be the death of him, and Éomer wasn’t entirely sure if he was going to hate it or not. No, he feared that he was enjoying it far too much. “He’s already had his dignity skewered.”

“I find it galling that I was beaten by a cheating babe, that is all.”

“My apologies sire, shall I hand you back your walking stick?” He gave her a cautious shove as he did Eòwyn when they were children, not expecting an even stronger one in return from the short woman. Despite it all, he smiled.

Erchirion raised a brow and Amrothos appeared to be grinning with a delight that could only be described as akin to the time Pippin won a bet against Aragorn about whether he or Faramìr was the greater drinker. And just as that time, Éomer felt a sinking feeling of dread in regards to Lothìriel’s two brothers.

* * *

“My cousins would have me believe that you are wildly and madly in love with my baby cousin.” Éomer spluttered out his ale earning himself a grimace from Eòwyn and a smirk from Faramìr. If anything the damned polished surfaces of the Dol Amroth palace only made him more aware of his apparent roughness. He was sure that his grandmother was somewhere in Gondor having a fit at the lack of finesse she failed to instil into himself and his sister. Or at least into him, Eòwyn could be polished whenever she felt like- though more often than not it was never.

“Bemà will this involve poetry?” Eòwyn’s nose scrunched up briefly before releasing a loud laugh, clearly delighted at whatever his facial response may be, her fingers curling around the plush fabric of the seat she sat upon. “Will I finally see you swoon over a woman?”

“I do not swoon.” His voice sounded unconvincing even to his ears. He picked up his glass of ale, hoping he was recovering well enough to miss the eyesight of his ranger brother.

“Nay brother, you just blush terribly. Your ears turn a rather remarkable shade of red!”

Instead he attempted to calm himself by observing the airy rooms his sister and husband had been allocated. Lothìriel briefly mentioned that the rooms had once been Faramìr and Boromìr’s upon their visits to the city, however now they had been rearranged to suit the young couple. Faramìr’s book and scroll cases decorated the walls while one of Eòwyn’s newly-completed tapestries in the Rohirric style graced the mantel above the fireplace and some of her seedlings growing by windows. Bemà, there he was thinking about something Lothìriel had said again. It seemed she was inescapable at this point as she was in essence Lady of the House and his personal poltergeist.

“Stop thinking about her,” Faramìr warned, barely looking up from half-way down his scroll. “It’s audible.”

“I am _not_ you Gondorian Bastard.”

“Save us all the suffering and elope already, Master Merry tells me the Shire is lovely this time of year.” Éomer growled at his sister but held back the insult forming at the fore of his mind. It would serve him little to snipe at her when her silver-tongued husband could easily lash him with his. “But truly, are you to now open the ball with her?”

“It is quite an honour,” Faramìr added, though Éomer noted the man seemed to be more genuine than before. “I believe she once forced my brother to promise that he’d open her first ball. Well, I think she tried coercing everyone at one point or another. My brother wasn’t much of a dancer, more of a drinker anyway.”

“My brother, though he may not look it, can be quite the dancer when he puts his mind to it.” There was no end to Eòwyn’s teasing. “I’m sure you won’t embarrass the entire nation. Perhaps just our Grandmother.”

“Ah yes, Grandmother.” Éomer gave pause, hearing what appeared to be a heated argument between some guards, scuffled noises from the gravel indicated to him a polite amount of shoving. Though Morwen taught him some Sindarin, he doubted he knew enough to understand the nuances of the insults being hurled.

“Damn cousins,” Faramìr, with the familiar tired exasperation of an elder brother or sibling. “No point breaking it up unless you wish an errant fist in your face.”

“Speaking from experience husband?” Eòwyn quirked a brow before wincing at the sharp noise of smashed garden pottery. A shrill, angered voice belonging to a woman quickly broke up the tousle. Though it was certainly _not_ the lilting tones of Lothìriel (he’d come to be far too familiar to those melodic notes). Éomer noted a quirk in his new brother’s eyebrow, the way his mouth pressed into a displeased line and his nostrils flaring in anger. Indeed, Faramìr seemed agitated, despite his best effort to hide it by dripping onto the wooden arm-rest of his seat.

“Valar save us all from the wrath of Lady Irvriniel.” In all of Éomer’s experience within Aragorn’s councils he had never known The Steward to lose his even-temper as this.

Éomer stood, curious now, making his way to the window in order to view the scene unfolding within the courtyard. In harsh Sindarin a tall, stately woman delivered scathing reprimands to her nephews, gesturing wildly at the broken pot and the soil tumbling from the multitude of cracks. Both Erchirion and Amrothos looked galled, starring down at their feet. Though something in Erchirion’s tense jaw seemed to belie a desire to retaliate, to spit something equally as scathing back. His heart stopped the moment he noticed Lothiriel arrive, laughing as she held onto a comically over-dressed cat in a miniature guard’s uniform (he had become _very_ well acquainted with Sir Ràvo Whiskers, Royal Mouse-catcher of the Swan Knight Cavalry). The scene would have been utterly hilarious and bizarre had Éomer not seen the effortless smile upon her face disappear. Irvriniel turned to her niece now, saying something beyond his capabilities of hearing. Though he gathered it wasn’t anything particularly pleasant.

He’d never seen Lothiriel sad before. Stoic perhaps, angry, nervous, happy. But not sad.

The grace she carried herself with seemed to stiffen at the shoulders, her chin raising and holding itself at a level that appeared to be dignified. Her eyes betrayed those efforts with the glistening of tears forming at the corners, her berry-stained lower lip trembled as she bit out a calm response. Éomer felt a mild sense of disgust well up within him, feeling as if none of this felt right. He noticed the way her petite hands fumbled for the elegant folds of her pale pink skirt, grasping them tight in her palms.

Éomer spotted the arrival of the eldest of Imrahil’s children, carrying his small son in his arms, looking to be more on edge than he had anticipated. Elphir’s face was set into a concerned line, perhaps having deduced the nature of what was occurring. He greeted his sister by pulling her into as tight of an embrace as he could manage with one arm, placing a kiss upon her brow. He seemed to say something that failed to please his aunt as she turned away with a huff.

“Well that could have been infinitely worse.” Faramìr spat out with displeasure, begrudgingly getting out of his comfortable seat and placing a kiss to his wife’s cheek. “Now if you’ll forgive me brother, darling wife, I must deal with _beloved_ Aunt Irvriniel. Let us pray to the Valar that I return in one piece.”

Dinner proved to be an interesting experience that night. As he had done over the past couple of weeks, Éomer had taken the vacated seat to Lothìriel’s side, greeting her with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Lothìriel returned it, though her smile seemed less free, much more terse than he had hoped for. Every quiet comment he’d make towards her was rewarded with a brief pause from her empty staring at her bowl as she would turn to look at him and answer back. Occasionally Éomer would make a small face at Alphros as he sat in his beloved Uncle Erchi’s lap, earning a giggle from the lad and a small smile from Lothìriel. His persistence paid off as the reserved Princess beside him slowly began to relax, initiating conversation more than she had over the past few minutes. _This_ felt much better to him, hearing her laugh as freely as she had before.

A small cough came from Lady Irvriniel as the tall, wiry woman fixed her niece a glare.

“And what pray, young lady, can be so amusing at this hour?” Éomer took in Irvriniel’s tightly coiled back auburn hair, held fast beneath a snood of plain weave. She seemed so severe, so _cold_ in comparison to her brother. Imrahil on the other hand was almost _too_ carefree in his attitude and positively spoiled his children to the extent of almost no discipline. He supposed his sons learned control through their time in their respective military ranks. Lothìriel seemed to have learned hers through her time as Princess of Dol Amroth. Though it appeared to Ivriniel that her niece was still an uncontrollable child.

“I do not think I could properly explain to you, Aunt,” Lothìriel’s voice was level, measured, though without the fear she had held in moments before. “After all, the youthful shenanigans of today’s generation go _quite_ over your head as you so like to say.”

Éomer spied Elphir snorting into his soup while Erchirion smothered his laughter into the downy-hairs of the adorably pudgy Alphros.

Irvriniel then sent her icy, grey glare towards him now. As if she accused him of having corrupted her impressionable niece. Both Amrothos and Imrahil noticed this and shared a slightly worried look at the possible offence their unguarded relative was causing. It was a shame his sister and new brother could not join this dinner, he was sure Irvriniel would have several choice words for his Wraithsbane sister, and she in turn several more. Faramìr, he was sure, would be absolutely _delighted_ in being able to use his keen foresight and tongue at her.

“I can assure you, my lady, I am only doing my best to entertain your esteemed niece as best as my unrespectable Rohirric ways can manage.” Irvriniel only deigned looked increasingly displeased before returning back to haughtily sipping her soup.

Éomer felt a warmth upon his thigh, and briefly looking down, noticed the small hand of the Princess just above his knee. She mouthed a quiet thank you before extracting her hand and returning to her soup.

Over the coming hours, Éomer didn’t think it possible that he could think so much about a small gesture. Indeed, by Rohirric standards, he was used to being manhandled.

Irvriniel seemed to avoid him whenever possible. Though the Dol Amroth palace itself was large, the private quarters were fairly close and any privacy was to be gained by traversing great distances to the various gardens of the palace. Or indeed by fleeing the palace all together and mingling about the streets of Belfalas. Éomer took to joining Lothìriel whenever possible, who was giving a sterling performance in the art of avoiding her father’s older sister.

Though it seemed, however, she had not managed it on this occasion. Éomer stood awkwardly near the deep wooden doors to Imrahil’s quarters towards the corridor, waiting patiently and watching the impassive faces of the guards standing upon either side. He adjusted the deep-green cloak draped upon his left shoulder (worn in a fashion Aragorn _insisted_ was becoming to him) and began to pace- stopping only when he heard raised voices.

“-And it is none of your business, Aunt! You have no right, and no authority over me. Furthermore, in case it has slipped your memory, I currently out-rank you.” Lothìriel wasn’t shouting as such, though her voice was raised above much normal levels. There was no heat, only the threat of command over her Aunt.

“And I am your father’s elder sister. Imrahil may have spoiled you, child, but you _will_ listen! You will wear whatever dress I put in front of you and you will not embarrass _me_.”

“Lothì, please,” Imrahil tried to reason with his daughter.

“I would rather turn up to my ball as naked as the day I was born.” Now the anger creeped into her tone, getting upon the verge of breaking into proper rage. “You have no _right_ to criticise what I choose to wear at the ceremony and you do not have the authority to criticise my position upon the council. Return to me when you have spent a year managing this godsforsaken country and a war rather than sniping at everyone who brings you displeasure.” Éomer heard approaching footsteps upon the marble floor, rapid and short with the whisper of soft fabric trailing behind.

Lothìriel emerged, pushing the two doors open with her own strength and letting them swing shut behind her, looking righteously furious and ready to attack any person that came into contact with her. Her eyes were alight with anger, their usual gentle grey now akin to the steel of formidable swords. Something in her expression softened when she spotted him, her mouth falling slightly open she turned direction and walked towards him.

He hadn’t expected to find her arms flung around his neck, her face buried into his chest as he did his best to compensate and bend a little down. His chin seemed to easily be able to tuck the dainty princess under his frame, holding her as he would a delicate bird within his arms. She was simply so _tiny_ it didn’t seem right that something so delicate could hide such strength. But he should have learned by now that Lothìriel was just too many things for him to be able to understand in a single afternoon.

But over a lifetime? Aye, perhaps he could after that, with her in his arms like this. He could feel her heartbeat, fast and passionate as she was, pounding in her chest.

“I-I’m sorry I shouldn’t have,” She pulled away briefly and he noticed the glistening tracks of fallen tears upon the curve of her cheeks, coloured with her anger.

“No, it’s perfectly alright.” He felt his fingers, as if moving of their own accord, wipe away a stray tear. “If you do not wish to sit with my sister and myself today,”

“Would you make my excuses? I-I think I need some time to myself.”

“I understand,” Éomer stepped back, relishing in the final vestiges of warmth that radiated from their contact. He held her hand in his and placed a small kiss upon the back. Once again he wasn’t quite sure what over took him in that moment, but it seemed the right choice. “Lothìriel?”

“Yes?”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

She briefly looked down, giving a quick squeeze to the hand she held. “I think I will be, if not there’s always the trade agreements from Dale.”

Despite his worry he gave a brief chuckle, his heart seemed to contract painfully as he saw her beautiful smile begin to form upon her face.

* * *

“What on _Arda_ do you three bastards think you’re doing?” The last thing Lothìriel expected after _that_ particular mess was her three brothers hunched about a large table in her private sitting room. She hastily wiped away the tears forming at the corners of her eyes as she remembered the snide comment Irvriniel had tossed at her during her quick meeting with her father.

Her Aunt Irvriniel had once held her mother’s coming-of-age dress aloft for her to see. Sea-foam green and just as delicate; young Lothìriel had immediately reached out with pudgy fingers to touch it. She yearned to hold the gossamer-fine fabric in her hands, feel the delicate golden embroidery edging the hemline. Sunlight delicately filtered through the fine weave of sea-silk gossamer, making the entire garment radiate with the soft golden hue of morning light.

Irvriniel then held the gown far above the little girl’s dark head, storing it again within the chest containing all of Meldawen’s former belongings. Her father said the little oaken chest was to be hers when she came of age. Lothìriel, however, knew the chest was lost. Absconded by one of her mother’s siblings and refused to be returned- it was part of Meldawen’s dowry and seeing as she was dead it was no longer _her_ property. She was lucky her brothers had been given heirlooms by their mother as she lay dying on her deathbed, strings of pearls and small brooches pressed into their hands, not knowing what the fate of the rest of her belongings held.

“You know dear old Aunt Irvriniel is probably spitting fire at the fact she doesn’t get to make your dress.” Elphir snuck up beside her, depositing a familiar kiss to the crown of her head. “Lothì we can’t promise it’ll be perfect-”

“No, I don’t want it to be perfect.” She took a glance at Amrothos’ furrowed brows, observing a pile of pale silver Haradim silk and beginning to draw out a pattern. Erchirion’s deft fingers wove a complex pattern with silver-shot wool threads, forming a braided cord from a nail he had hammered partially into the table to hold the threads taut. She imagined her brother did something similar every morning upon his ships, weaving rope as he was taught as a child. His ruddy hair was tied back in a much simpler cord, though also braided by him.

“Well, nanneth taught us enough sewing to hopefully serve you.” Amrothos briefly looked up from the fabric with a cheery grin.

“I don’t care how messy your stitches are, brother.” Lothìriel smiled fondly at the most troublesome of her brothers. “Tradition states that the mother or those who raised the girl who is to come out makes the dress. Besides, even if it’s as ugly as _your_ pathetic face I have plenty of other dresses.”

“Ouch Lothì. You’re well aware at how sensitive I am about my ugliness.” Amrothos snorted before going back to the pattern. “If you’re not careful we’ll make the dress positively scandalous, you’ll never find a respectable husband that way.”

Lothìriel carefully considered her teasing brother before her, tilting her head a little to the side, feeling for the first time in a long while the formation of a dimple upon her cheek as she smirked. There was something Éomer had said to her over their many dinners, the very words were at the fore of her mind and she berated herself for failing to recall them exactly. But the ghost of it’s memory sparked something in her imagination.

“You know what my dearest brother? I won’t be entirely satisfied until this gown thoroughly scandalises Irvriniel.” In all honesty, scandalising Irvriniel was a fairly easy task.

“Baby sister, when have I ever failed to cater to your demands?” Amrothos shot back with an equally delighted grin as he held his chalk piece aloft and began to make amends to his drafted pattern.

Irvriniel may have given her hell this past week, but since when did Lothìriel ever care about what she said?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I do think Irvriniel cares in her own way, but I don’t think Lothìriel was ever the sort to enjoy receiving love in the form of unnecessary discipline out of mis-placed worry. She won’t be an entire villain here because coming from a obscenely large family, there’s always that relative (or in my case about 5 of that type of Aunt). Meldawen’s gown is inspired by the fact that weaving sea algae into fabric is a dying art and I like to think that the elves (and numenoreans by that extent) managed to develop fine enough weaves in order to manage a gossamer of sea silk. But ya’ll probably don’t wanna hear about the archaeology of ancient textiles lmao and I didn’t wanna turn this fic into my essay on that.
> 
> Feel free to leave any comments as I love replying to them and hearing about what you guys think<3


	4. Oed’ und leer das Meer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, but I’m finally in my uni holidays and oh boi was this semester out to get me. Nothing says stress like 70% weighted essay that lecturers from two faculties want to read. I’m glad to see that a few of you have really enjoyed this fanfic and if you’d like to see more I’ll see where this story takes me. But I think considering my uni life I’ll be sticking to much shorter fics than the 500k marvel fics I used to churn out back in the highschool days.  
> The chapter title comes from T S Eliot’s The Wasteland from Part 1- Burial of the dead, it translates to ‘desolate and empty the sea’. I think it’s quite fitting in a way, but hopefully this chapter is a lot more happy than the last one. Thank you so much for all the lovely comments I’ve gotten! I’m glad you’re all enjoying it so far. Also meme time.
> 
> Broke: Finduilas is a graceful dancer as befitting a Princess  
> Woke: Denethor was the best goddamned dancer of his generation and his skills on the dancefloor are what enticed the Princess who was trying to find a decent dance partner that could keep up with her for once.
> 
> Lmao consistent chapter length what is that??????????

Eomer was staring at her with such an intensity that she wasn’t sure if she was entirely deserving of it. His warm eyes twinkled under the candle-light, golden hair half pulled into a neat bun with his gleaming crown above his brow. There was something pleasing about the softness of his lips and the gentle smile that had formed upon it. Without a doubt in her mind she was sure he was handsome. Perhaps not as lithe and almost elven-like as those of Gondor she had become familiar with, but someone who’s physique belied their strength.

“Those scoundrels truly made that?” Eomer gestured at her dress. Perhaps it was not the most well-made dress, for she had to re-do several of Amrothos’ stitches; but it was beautiful nonetheless. Amrothos had cut the liquid-like silver silk to fit her form while exposing her neck and shoulders, Erchirion braided strands of sea silk and silver-shot wool into a smooth rope for a girdle, Elphir formed a garland of dainty wildflowers to be worn at the crown of her head and had pierced imperfect seed pearls to decorate the skirt of her dress. Other maidens had their gowns elaborately embroidered and trimmed but she would be a fool to think that her brothers were capable of that level of craftsmanship.

“Since the Second Age it was tradition to present a maiden now of age a new dress. It was to signify her transition from maidenhood to womanhood, usually made for her by her mother.” Lothìriel took a moment to steal a glance at the deep-velvet green tunic embroidered at the hem with golden leaves and the outline of horses. His belt seemed to be a complex weave of golden strands forming a buckle and neat leather catching the fabric of his tunic and fine breeches. It was far, far different to what he usually wore. “Do you _always_ wear your cape like that?”

“Uh,” He turned a little pink at the question, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. She had come to like the fact he wore his copper-coloured cape about only one of his shoulders. “Aragorn insisted it suited me.”

“Well,” She was _quite_ unaware that the King of Gondor had a sense of humour, “He wasn’t wrong. Perhaps you’ll start a fashion of it.” Lothìriel became more aware of their surroundings now in the eerily empty corridor, mindful of the sudden burst of music that had come from the ballroom.

“I suppose we cannot delay much further,” Eomer offered a hand and Lothìriel took it gladly. “I cannot escort you in, though your brothers have offered.”

“Well, I would be much obliged if you could steal a nibble or two for me as I will apparently be missing out.” Lothìriel did her best to hide her nerves, painfully all too aware of the feeling of his hand in hers. “Go, I’ll be ready.” Eomer slowly released his hand and gave a small bow.

“Lothìriel?”

“Yes?”

“Why did you bet the dance?” She hadn’t expected that question at all. The longer she tried to search for an answer the more she found that she was grasping at wisps of thoughts, unable to hold a tangible word in her hand. “It seems too important to bet.”

“I-I’ll tell you later.” Lothìriel added quickly, giving a smile and hoping it would placate him for now. The rising warmth of her cheeks seemed to radiate in constant waves and she felt the insane urge to press her face upon the coolness of the alabaster floor if it meant abating the redness that must have been visible on her face. The distant sound of a trumpet alerted her to the time and she quickly smoothed down her dark tresses in an attempt to stay her nerves. With a final nervous glance at the distant sea she began to make the short walk towards the ballroom, remembering well those days long ago where she’d scampered and hidden behind tall pot plants in games with her brothers. Those days seemed so distant now, as if the morning fog of the bay had rolled over her mind’s eye, doing it’s utmost best to obscure her childhood from her- that time when a little girl had been jealous that her older brothers were playing their part as dashing knights just like those they had told her in their bedtime stories.

Lothìriel turned to her left now, facing an elegant metal gate of wrought iron, the spring weather had meant that the delicate blossoms now bloomed on the intertwined vines sprawling over them. Before her stretched the orangery and the footpath of pale-white gravel and in the near distance, the crystalline structure of the outdoor ballroom. The sweet, fresh scent of ripening oranges pierced her nose as she began to walk through the narrow garden, her slippered feet making contact with the fine gravel and her satin gown whispering behind her legs. Golden light emanated from within and shadows were cast upon the white gravel of dancers and courtiers milling about the room before events could begin.

She had no other choice now and with a skip in her rapidly beating heart she stepped into the open doorway. The great mass of people suddenly hushed and turned to face her, grabbing the nearest goblets they could from the passing servants. She could see the tall form of her brothers in their respective blue uniforms standing by cousin Faramìr and his wife (who had been sneaking finger-foods from the tray of an unaware servant). Her father gently clapped Erchirion upon the shoulder before making his way to stand before her and giving her a bow.

“Ada-“

“It’s tradition sweetling,” Prince Imrahil seemed to look so much more tired of late, his eyes weary and a few more strands of silver had begun to make their presence known upon his temples. But she could not ignore the proud smile he wore nor the shine of tears that were just visible in his eyes. Her father looked every bit as princely as her childhood self once recalled, it had been many years since the House of Dol Amroth held an official ball and it seems her father was determined for the grandeur and hospitality of his house to be well remembered. Imrahil now stepped back to face the guests, his chalice aloft in his jewelled hand. “A toast! To my youngest and only daughter, my greatest joy and my most beloved light. The greatest gift we could have all received.” She watched as her father’s breath caught in his throat for a moment, sadness passing quickly before his eyes. “May your days be long and fruitful.”

Lothìriel curtsied to the gathered courtiers and as a wave breaking upon the rocks, they bowed in return, the movement rippling through the room.

Her time passed quickly after that, receiving gifts from a number of Dol Amroth nobles as they bade her listen to their troubles in the hopes she would resolve it with the council. She patiently listened, hoping the inevitable dance would be delayed for as long as possible.

Why _did_ she bet it?

What did she have to gain by it? She could have- _should have-_ asked Faramìr or perhaps even Elphir. But they were of course married men and generally left out of contention for these sorts of things, leaving the next best option being Erchirion or even Amrothos. But she decided in that heated moment, as if clarity had struck through the haze of her excitement- she didn’t want anyone else.

Like wading through water, the scene around her seemed to slow in the following heartbeats. Eomer took her hand with a bow and she reciprocated with as gracious a curtsey as she could manage. Together they wove their way through the now dissipating crowd to the centre of the room, their eyes briefly meeting in reassurance before assuming their positions for the first dance.

It was a dance she could probably do in her sleep, the steps simple and easy enough to learn by even the youngest of babes. But throughout it all her eyes never left his, watching his smallest reaction and anticipating the next sway or step to the gentle sound of pipes and drums. Pure liquid exhilaration coursed through her veins as she makes those sweeping turns around him, their fingers brushing (but never clasping hands) as they made their gentle paths slowly towards each other and then slowly away. Eventually both the music and the dance began to fade, their steps leading them face-to-face, her hands finally enclosed with his as her drew her close.

She never knew that he could look at her like that, as if she were the most precious thing he had ever beheld. There was a softness to the defined contours of his face that she had become _so_ familiar with and something within her ached desperately in order to see it again.

“I believe that on numerous occasions with my brother, I was always promised the second dance.” Lothìriel bit back her remark as the sharp memory of Boromìr leapt to the forefront of her mind. The way her older cousin had carried her about on his shoulders when she was a child, the way he instructed her to stand upon his feet as he tried to teach her formal Numenorean dances.

A quieter memory tugged at the back of her mind of a stern dark-haired man, worry clear on his face; briefly looking at her with a smile she’d never see upon his face again before gently guiding her three year-old self about the room in a dance he’d learned long ago with another Dol Amroth Princess at her own first dance.

“Well,” Eomer gently released her with a bow, handing her over to his brother-in-law. Lothìriel smiled in thanks, briefly registering the loss of his warmth with a sharp sense of pain before addressing her cousin again. “We all know that Boromìr inherited your ghastly father’s dancing skills.”

“Yes and despite that, he refused to use them. Said it was more useful for swordsmanship.” Faramìr admitted with a slight chuckle before leading her through the motions she had learned so long ago. Faramìr, though perhaps not the most gifted of dancers, was naturally light on his feet and inclined to rhythm. After years of her brothers’ inabilities to dance, she was delighted for once to at least have someone who wouldn’t embarrass her the way her brothers intentionally did at family dinners. “Am I to have to explain to your father a sennight from now that the King of Rohan has eloped with his beloved and only daughter?”

Lothìriel choked on her spit for a moment, nearly missing a beat to the complex pattern of foot work, before barely recovering and grasping Faramìr’s hand for the second set of steps.

“Well, are you?”

“Whatever gave you that far-fetched impression, cousin dearest?” Lothìriel hoped she evaded the question well enough, though the sly look of Faramìr’s grey eyes and the smirk forming at his mouth only served to tell her just how much he believed that.

“Only the lovesick looks you seem to be throwing at his general direction. And the pining ones he sends at yours. Don’t worry my beloved wife takes it upon herself to make him admit it to himself.”

“There is nothing to admit, cousin.” Lothìriel bit out harsher than she had expected. Faramìr only raised a brow before smiling once more. “I am happy that you’ve found a family of your own, Fara,”

Faramìr only laughed and shook his head. “Sometimes I cannot believe it, I wonder what my brother would have said about it sometimes.”

“He probably would have teased you to death as all brothers do,” She replied, feeling keenly the pain of her cousin’s loss once again.

She remembered that day in court; her father had sent her to Minas Tirith and she had argued every way she could with the small council of her Uncle for whatever her people needed. Denethor had been as cold as always, nodding curtly and ceding some of her demands. Bormoìr had told her once as a child, as he tucked her into bed that she simply looked too much of the House of Dol Amroth, that her grey eyes reminded him too much of Finduilas and her laugh of the one that used to float through the Steward’s halls.  Lothìriel could still feel the cold hand gripped her own as she stood beside the Steward’s throne, a page interrupting her counsel and uttering the words that had sent her uncle into sheer despair.

And even then she wiped the tears from her uncle’s eyes with a grey-silk sleeve and called for a messenger to inform her cousin, feeling her lower lip begin to tremble and the dam ready to break at any moment. It had been she that ran to the stone masons of the lower circles, begging for a statue of Boromìr’s likeness as soon as they could- the money taken from her own purse. Denethor had locked himself in his tower, but it had been she that covered her cousin’s body with his silken shroud, his forehead anointed with the same clove oils as his forebears. And she that had stood clad in black, silken veil drawn over her form, watching her cousin mourn his brother from behind his placid stares into the horizon.

Faramìr now leaned down to place a kiss at her forehead as he had always done, his eyes wet with tears she couldn’t comprehend. He seemed much older now than in her memories of a younger boy, he was a man in his prime now with the weight of responsibility upon his shoulders. Despite it all there was a levity to him that she hadn’t seen in so long, and she knew that she had a shieldmaiden to thank for it.

“We’re _both_ proud of you,” Lothìriel now felt the weight of warm wetness at her cheeks, a painful breath caught at the top of her throat. “Never doubt that.” With that Faramìr bowed to her and released her hand, moving past the crowd to his concerned wife who placed her hand upon his cheek.

The spacious ballroom had never been this full before, not in her recent memory at least. As a child she would wander down the familiar corridors and through the orangery to reach the ballroom, barefoot and clad in her night gown she would try to spy her father in his fineries and the ladies in their jewels. She would sway to the sound of the music, twirling with pudgy fists flaring out a linen shift. Saerwen or one of her brothers would eventually find her and shepherd her back to her dark bedroom, but her mind stayed firmly affixed on the image of hundreds of dancers.

She imagined once that she would love these balls too. Her brothers and her cousins would read her all those stories of the Numenorean line, of fine balls and intrigues passed. Tales of queens and why it was she dreamed of Tar-Mirìel’s raven-haired form standing above a cliff, serene eyes closed as she calmly waited for Ulmo to swallow her whole.

But now the room felt too crowded, the noise deafening and the air around her too warm and thick to draw breath. Gathering her skirts in her sweating palms she attempted to push her way through the crowd, feeling an unescapable tightness squeezing her chest in a vice grip.

“Lothìriel.” Lothìriel stopped in her tracks, turning to face her aunt. Irvriniel never called her by her name. It was always child, girl, little one; countless place-holder names. Her aunt stood straight, her raven hair braided back severely, though the silver coronet of her station was situated above her brow. She couldn’t remember her aunt ever having dressed this formally, save the coronation of Aragorn Elessar.

“Yes, Aunt.” She tried to be civil, tried for once not to fall for the bait. Irvriniel walked close, a cold hand resting upon the crook of her elbow with some gentleness. Lothìriel’s heart shuddered to a stop, fearing for what may come next.

“I only ever feared that my brother’s spoiled nature would tarnish you too. You were too akin to your mother in likeness-“

“Thus you concluded that I would be too pretty and too empty for your liking?” Lothìriel felt her temper flare around her neck and ears, anger rising to the forefront of her mind.

“I only wanted to see you be able to stand on your own… I see now you were never the sort who needed their hand held.” There was a quiet tone of reflection in her voice that Lothìriel wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear- or if she could bear to hear.

“No, I did not. We only ever wanted your kindness.” Lothìriel caught a glance at her brothers who had just spied Irvrinìel standing by her. Amrothos in particular looked angered, motioning to Elphir that they should move over to join her. “If you’ll excuse me Aunt, I need to breathe.”

And so she pushed past the brightly-dressed crowd, apologising briefly every time she trod upon a gown or bumped into some person a little _too_ hard. Lothìriel gave small smiles, nodded, and gave her thanks whenever a guest complimented her upon her gown, though she knew it was mostly a forced compliment upon their part. It felt as if she were always to be caught in the stifling mess of the ballroom, the golden candles in the chandeliers beginning to feel as if they were blinding her vision.

“Your Highness?” She felt a hand upon her forearm, the scars in the hand already familiar to her.

“Your Majesty,” Lothìriel believed she sounded as if she’d just released a sigh of relief. “I was just on my way out,” she nodded in the direction of the entrance. Together they made their way through the entrance of the ballroom and into a small, secluded balcony off the orangery that overlooked the distant headland and the riotous ocean crashing against the base of the cliffside. That sound had always lulled her to sleep as a child.

Sir Ràvo Whiskers sat atop the stone balustrade, the fluffy tabby dressed for the occasion in a little outfit mimicking her brothers’ midnight doublets. His leg was stuck in the air at an amusing angle as his little head attempted to clean himself. Eomer grinned (she had seen him grin more in this one evening than she had these past few weeks), scratching the cat’s ears with fondness as he paused in his cleaning and purred. Lothìriel did her best to keep her heart from beating too hard, feeling a rush of fondness at the sight before her; his tall, muscular frame in a relaxed state as he enjoyed the quiet act of petting the cat. With a flick of his bushy tail Ràvo stalked away, possibly in search of company or his dinner, the former was more likely considering how well fed Amrothos kept him. Eomer then stood beside her, gently draping his decorative cape over her form. The velvet was heavy and warm from his body. She raised a brow in question and he laughed, murmuring that she must be feeling cold. With a shake of her head she drew closer to him, noticing that he too looked beyond the far horizon where several fishing boats had begun to cast their nets.

“Beyond is Harad. I’ve never been but Erchi is usually sent, being a Naval Officer. It’s much safer travelling by water than by land.” She paused for a moment to glance at his face, it was as handsome as she expected but with a much more thoughtful expression passing by his eyes. “It’s a strange land,”

“More strange than the Mark?” He said with quiet amusement in his voice,

“The land is a desert crossed by rivers and oases, lined with these ancient poplars that shine like burnished gold. They make fine textiles and grow spices we cannot here in Arda. It’s why it was so important we kept trade with them, and –“

Eomer interrupted her, “You do not need to discuss business at your own birthday party,”

“It’s not really my date of birth,” Lothìriel admitted softly, unsure if he even heard her. But the way her looked directly at her, trying to lower himself to her level despite his great height assured her otherwise. “This date was only chosen because custom decrees we cannot celebrate the day of a death. My mother died bringing me into this world. And I had to wait, nameless, for the full three days of mourning until I could be announced.”

“Does it ever bother you?”

Lothìriel noticed the intensity of his stare, a glimpse of his strength and compassion flashing before his eyes. He never kept his distance, the same way other courtiers did. If he spoke to her he was honest, genuine, direct. She hadn’t realised how much she appreciated until all those trivial dances she had to endure- and just how much she had been missing all her life. “In truth, it doesn’t. My mother brought four children into this world; she deserves her time to be remembered. We can only hope we leave as kind and beautiful a legacy.”

A quiet lull fell between them once again as they both gazed into the horizon once again. The tide rose rapidly in Belfalas, and several of the rocky atolls had already sunk into the black water, exposing only their slender peaks. The fishermen now, appearing as small dots against the moonlight and the light of their own whale-oil lanterns, threw over smaller baskets as they made their usual pathways across the water. She idly hoped that there would be plenty of fish to be sold in the morning.

“Lothìriel?” His tone was thoughtful, measured. He sounded as if he was scared to ask her a question.

“Yes,”

“Did you want your position? To rule?”

“I didn’t exactly rule,” Lothìriel clarified, realising that his eyes had turned from the horizon to her face. “Amrothos called me the nightwatchman, I recall. But I did not have a choice, father was needed to organise the armies and my brothers needed to command their own men. I suppose I had plenty of help and many of my tasks had been mine own since I was a little over fifteen.”

“Grain stores? Eowyn hated that duty.” Eomer’s grin told her that Eowyn would much rather have been riding off to face orcs at that age. “Was it hard?”

“I felt as if I were drowning no matter how hard I paddled against the incoming tide. You learn very quickly as a child that you do not fight a riptide, you wait and swim sideways until you are pulled outwards and then swim towards the shore. It was a bit like that, just letting the duties happen as needed and waiting until there was a frivolity to plan before I could breathe. I thought going to Gondor would be that break, alas not.” She felt her voice catch in her throat, the sight of Denethor’s broken face and the way the madness clung to him like the stench of a fire. She idly ran a hand down her neck, as if massaging it would release the tension.

“My lady?”

“My cousins and I, we all dream of the wave.” Lothìriel began, unable to understand why she felt the need to tell him. But he was there beside her, ready to listen. “Of that poor girl defiled by her cousin as he took the crown from her. How he plunged the kingdom into Sauron’s hands and of her calm, quiet face as the water filled her lungs.”

“Have all your family dreamed such?”

“My father’s sister- Faramìr’s mother, did. He does too I believe, and Elphir when he was a child. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone else. I never thought that my brothers would believe me, and my father worried over every little thing that I didn’t want to bother him either. Like it or not, it is my heritage. With it came responsibilities.” A lull in the conversation followed and feeling her feet ache in her slippers she shimmied onto the wide balustrade as she often had in the past, swinging her legs over and hiking her gown above her knees. She turned to see Eomer mimicking her now and swinging a long leg over the pale stone.

Lothìriel wasn’t sure what had motivated her, but she quickly found herself moving without thinking and her head resting upon his shoulder; her gaze unmoving from the distant boats at sea.

“It was meant to be Theodred.” His chest rumbled beneath her ear and she slowly realised just how comforting it was to feel the warmth muscle beneath his fine tunic. He was truly built like the warriors of old, but part of him remained soft and gentle. Eomer sounded as if he were giving away a dark secret that had never seen the light of day, the way his voice sounded thin and strained. But his chest rose and fell deeply, his body relieved of the weight. “I was never destined for such great things. He had a much better head for statescraft and politics. I was just a soldier.”

“I’m sure you were talented beyond measure,” Lothìriel said, tearing her eyes away now from the boats and tilting her chin to sit atop his shoulder, her face now beside his and the tip of her nose barely touching the scruff of his beard. “You seem to be the only soldier my brothers have ever regaled as such, they speak of you as if you were the great knights they once lulled me to sleep with.”

“Did you always hear of knights?”

“Always, seemed to be the only stories they knew. What did you tell Eowyn?”

“Unfortunately for Theodred and I, the same. I should not be surprised that she rode out upon the battlefield. If Theodred had lived perhaps it would not have been such a risky thing for my land has seen Shieldmaidens of old, but had I too fallen, then she would have been Queen. I think she would have been far better than I.”

“Maybe, but it does not do well to dwell on something that did not happen. I’m the youngest you see, and at times of war there was every possibility that should the darkness come and my male kin all lost, that I would be left Steward and Princess at the same time.” She tentatively reached out with a trembling hand to tuck back an errant strand of his hair. “ _You_ , Eomer are king and I know that you have and _will_ serve your people well. I do not think you would ever forgive yourself if you did not.”

“Are you so sure that I could do it?”

“Yes, of course,” The answer escaped her mouth without hesitation, “I know of your ability to protect your land from whatever dangers dare cross your borders. And I know of how kind and noble you can be, I know you’ll listen. I suppose that’s the most important one, for we all fear a tyrant. You’ve been nothing but good to me, Eomer. I don’t understand why and I don’t know how I could begin to repay that in kind.”

Eomer’s brows furrowed, his body tense with discomfort.

“I don’t understand why you feel I need your gratitude, you have been my host for weeks now.”

“No, Eomer. Thank you for listening, you always listen.” He laughed at that.

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t, I enjoy it.”

Lothìriel shook her head, teasing, “No, you don’t.”

Eomer now gently took her face in his hands, a thumb idly brushing away a strand of hair that had escaped her snood as it trembled in the cool sea-breeze. “Aye, I truly do.”

“Come with me, at dawn.” She said suddenly, unsure of why the request felt so natural. Though a small, nagging feeling at the back of her mind already told her the answer.

“Where?”

“Sometimes I like to swim at dawn, there are these steps by the private gardens that lead to a small beach. I should very much like to show it to you.” He took her hand into his own as she spoke, bringing it to his lips. She was _so close_ , so infuriatingly close to him and nothing within her felt the need to pull away. Lothìriel watched as he pressed the smallest of kisses to her knuckles, another to the flesh of her palm by her thumb. The heat of his breath caused her to give the slightest of shivers as she contemplated closing the negligible gap between them.

And she could do it, all she would have to do was tilt her head upwards as her hand pulled his own head towards her ready lips. Her unoccupied hand quivered for the barest moment, almost going through with the motion. But something within her told her to wait.

“My lady, I could hardly refuse such an offer.” Eomer murmured into her palm, meeting her gaze. The dark green of his eyes in the moonlight caught the breath in her throat before it could escape. Lothìriel knew that there was very little likelihood of going to bed easily tonight, for all her thoughts would be in anticipation of dawn.

* * *

Lothiriel couldn’t quite believe all that had transpired. The quiet beauty of the dawn, the fresh-feeling swimming in the sea had left her, the kiss… she’d never kissed a man before. Let alone someone as- she struggled to find the right word to describe Eomer. After all this time she was sure he’d barely tolerated her. Perhaps indulged her whims because she was the sister of his shield-brothers, but no. It wasn’t that at all.

Everything began to slot into place and make sense. Before her eyes she could see every moment of concern that Eomer had given her, how freely it was given and how surprised he seemed whenever it was returned. She remembered how he’d outwardly grumbled at their dance to her brothers but saved those precious, private smiles for her as they swayed around each other. She remembered how easily he’d been able to elicit a laugh from her the moment he noticed her slip into those quiet moods where it seemed all she’d do was stare into the middle distance or begin to worry about her duties. Even the quiet almost innane questions he’d ask while sitting beside her at dinner these past weeks, giving her a chance to be heard amongst her louder brothers vying for their father’s ear on military matters.

“It’s sudden, I know,” Eomer whispered into her ear as he draped his dry cloak over her wet form. Together with his arm about her waist they clambered over the large rocks towards the old sea-cave that now formed an entrance into the palace. The tide was beginning to recede now with several more low steps being exposed against the stone stairwell they descended. “But do you think perhaps-“

“We’ll have to ask my father,” Lothìriel’s hand quickly reached up to cradle his jaw and gently run her fingers through the short hair of his beard. His face quickly faded from gentle eagerness to being suddenly unsure. The presence of her hand quickly reassured him. “I’m sure he’ll agree. I’m of age and even if we have to have a year-long courtship there’s no real cause for delay.”

“Lothìriel, I can wait.”

“I _don’t_ like waiting,” She pressed a kiss against his cheek with some difficulty, damn his ungodly height. “I hope it’ll be fine. After all there’s no real reason as to why not.”

“Apart from the cradle-snatching?” Lothìriel snorted at his response.

“I have been of marriageable age for some years now.” He nodded as they continued up the stairs, gradually making their way towards the secluded eastern gardens where the stairs ended. “Besides logically Rohan needs a Queen and my father needs an alliance with lands beyond Gondor.”

“Is that all?”

“No. The fact I love you should be reason enough.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like I’m not entirely sure why Tar-Miriel got usurped, from memory I think it was just that her cousin forced her to marry him, and using a GOT context I’m assuming it was a form of coercion. I also decided to really pursue the idea of Diplomat Lothìriel and the idea that she’s essentially had to keep two countries running at one point. The land of Harad is inspired by the North-West of China in the Takamalan desert of Xinjiang and the Poplar forests of the Tarim River and Basin. On an archaeological note they have some sick af salt mummies with insanely good textile preservation/tattoo preservation.
> 
> Once again I’m so sorry that this took a while, but I wasn’t happy with some parts and I ended up re-writing it quite a few times. Hopefully this got all the ideas through a lot more clearer. I think for now this is the best spot to end this story and frame it nicely. If any of you would like to see the ensuing hot mess that would be a wedding with everyone’s favourite Dol Amroth princes invited, a formerly Rohirric princess going into labour, and the Legolas v Gimli drinking contest round two I think I’ll be making that a separate story.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you all think and thanks for all your lovely comments and for just even reading this 😊


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